“I’m lonely and you’re always working, or busy, or out at some glitzy event,” Tom said.
What a bloody lame excuse!
He was saying this was my fault.
I’d driven him to it.
Tom tugged the waistband of his tartan boxer shorts then scratched his broad, muscled chest. “You know I don’t like those things anymore; everyone’s fake. The whole time they’re talking to me, they’re looking over my shoulder for someone more important or popular to talk to, to be seen with. And no matter what they’re saying I know they’re lying.”
They’re lying!
“And they’re probably—”
“Screwing their girlfriends’ mother behind her back?” My words fired out like bullets powered by the fury of betrayal. “My mother, Tom? She’s fifty-seven.”
“Age is just a number, Meri. Your mother is— Fuck! Ow!”
My Most Popular Presenter Award made a satisfying thud as the globe on the top of the smooth, hollow column connected with his shoulder.
I’d forgotten it was in my hand.
Hell, I didn’t realise I was swinging for him, until he screamed and fell to his knees, curling up into the foetal position. I just wanted to shut him up.
I wished it was filled with lead—something heavy and hard… that would hurt more.
I swung again as he huddled on the floor, looking up at me through the shield of his arms.
“Meri, stop it!” Mum’s shout turned me from Tom’s cowering form. “We didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Are you some sort of sociopath? You slept with my boyfriend. In my bed.” Rage vibrated in my voice. “How the hell did you think I would feel? Happy? Grateful?” It was surreal; suddenly I felt like I was presenting my show and everything was happening to someone else, and I was just watching and passing comment. “Did you think I’d just say, Okay, when you’re finished with him give him a quick wash and pass him back like a communal dildo?”
“Don’t be like that.” Tom whimpered.
Like what? If I still had my pointy shoes on, I’d kick him. “I won three awards. I came home to tell you. To surprise you with a celebratory blow-jo—” I snorted. “I guess you surprised me.” Again, I had to force away the nauseating image of Tom watching me over his shoulder whilst he came… In. My. Mother.
“We didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Meri, baby—” The flush on Talith’s—I couldn’t acknowledge her as my mother right now, not even in my head—face had faded and—thankfully—she’d taken the time to cover her perfect, scientifically preserved and medically enhanced size-eight body. I couldn’t handle her postcoital and full frontal. Unfortunately, she’d used my favourite Chinese silk throw as a wrap, and her right nipple kept popping out, proudly shouting, I’ve been having sex with your boyfriend. Talith gave up trying to cover herself. There was no containing those seven-thousand-pound DD breasts.
Tom spoke from his position hidden behind her, “Talith and I, we have feelings for each other, Meri. It’s no one’s fault.”
“Yes, it is.” Ice dripped from my words. “It’s your fault, both of you”—I jabbed my award in their direction—“for acting on it.”
“You can’t blame the breakdown of a relationship on one person,” Talith said.
“I can when he’s screwing my mother,” I retorted.
“Why don’t we all sit down and we can talk this through like adults?”
“I don’t want to sit down,” I said. “I don’t want to talk it through. I don’t want to sort it out.” My hand cut through the air in a dramatic slicing motion. “It’s over.”
“Wha…” Tom blinked, eyes and mouth opening and closing simultaneously, like a beached cod gasping for breath. “Think about what you’re giving up here, Meri. Our life—”
“I know what I’m giving up here, Tom. A guy who’s cheating on me with my mother. No thinking time required.”
“What about the years we’ve been together?” His voice rose with panic. “The life we’ve built?”
“Is that what you were thinking about when you were screwing her?”
“Hey!” Talith snapped, stepping aside and leaving Tom without cover if I decided to swing for him again. “I know you’re hurting, but we just—”
“Shut up!” I screeched before either of them could say anything else. “Just get out! Both of you. Out! Now!”
Chapter 2
Mother: You Ripped Our Family Apart!
Two days later, I was stuck in traffic behind a bus. All afternoon I’d faked a smile with my agent Tony and Heat’s editor whilst selecting the best pictures of me on the red carpet, rocking my VB dress. It took real effort to smile and focus on how great it felt to top their Best-Dressed list and not the emotional shitstorm the rest of the night had become. Then I’d answered weird questions about the strangest thing I’ve ever eaten (fried silk worms in South Korea); whether I’d ever worn something out of the dirty laundry basket (yes, but not underwear); my proudest moment (most popular times three at this year’s NTAs); had I ever cheated on anyone (no); my longest relationship, (seven years, seven long, wasted years with a lying, cheating, money-sucking, mummy-fucking piece of crap. Okay, so I only thought that bit, I didn’t actually say it); and other fascinating facts that would be spun into a three-page article.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the back end of a bus and half-heartedly singing along to a country song. I had no idea where Tom or Talith were. I hadn’t heard a peep from either of them since I kicked them out. I’d spent the last two days getting my bed replaced and moving all of Tom’s stuff out of my bedroom.
The guy in the black Fiesta behind me laid on his horn. The bus driver waved his middle finger out the window, signalling for us to overtake, totally oblivious to the fact the other side of the road was blocked by some arsehole who’d decided to park on a double yell—
Hey! I recognised the arsehole’s blue Audi convertible; it was Tom’s. A half-mile of traffic built up behind it, tailing back past the traffic lights. The dark wood door to Ottomans restaurant swung open, and out strolled the arsehole, carrying a bouquet of calla lilies in clashing shades of red and orange and a massive brown paper bag of takeout.
My heart tripped, banging painfully off my ribs, and my stomach plummeted. It must be the second Monday of the month. Ottomans was my favourite restaurant. We always got takeout from there on the second Monday of the month.
Reaching his car, Tom dumped the food and flowers on the back seat and jumped over the door, sliding into his seat like an eighties cop show character. He pulled out, whizzing between the static traffic, without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to the vehicles snarled up around him.
“Ottomans and flowers…” He hadn’t bought me flowers since my last birthday: brown-tipped roses with curly, wilting leaves from the supermarket sale bin. The bus finally began to move, freeing the gridlock. Without thought, I yanked the steering wheel to the right and, whilst horns blared and drivers gesticulated, swerved into the wrong lane, squeezed between the bus and oncoming traffic with millimetres to spare and floored the accelerator. I blew through an amber, possibly red, light, catching up with Tom as he zipped along the line of standing traffic he’d created.
It wasn’t like I was following him, or anything stalker-ish. We were just both headed in the same direction. I slammed on the brakes, cursing as a car pulled out between us, before creeping along the road at five miles per hour.
“Shit!” I slammed the steering wheel with the heel of my hand as I lost sight of him. The creep in front began a ten-thousand-point manoeuvre into a parallel park at the kerb. Breaking every rule in the Highway Code and a couple of traffic laws, I mounted the pavement to get past. Relying on instinct, I made like a NASCAR driver and managed, by some miracle, to get within a few car lengths of Tom.
He was heading towards Regency Street.
My heart fluttered, my stomach warmed with… a
nticipation… nerves… anger?
Our, my, flat was on Regency Street. He had expensive flowers and takeout from my favourite restaurant. Was he coming to beg for forgiveness?
I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see him, or listen to anything he had to say. I certainly wasn’t ready to forgive, and there was no forgetting what I’d seen.
If I was a guest on my show, I’d be screaming and crying whilst Dave, head of show security, prevented me from scratching Tom and my mother’s eyes out. But shock had me emotionally numb; that was the only explanation for the fact I wasn’t getting violent or weepy. This was my body’s way of protecting me. Underneath the layer of numbness was a whole load of hurt and rage just waiting to spill out.
I swung left, careful to maintain two cars between me and Tom. I’d seen cops and private eyes in movies, and they always kept two cars between them and the person they were following.
What was Tom thinking? I wasn’t going to be bought off with a takeaway and bunch of flowers.
He turned across Vauxhall Bridge Road onto Regency Street. I accelerated, nearly rear-ending the BMW in front and cutting off a granny in a Ford Ka. Wings beat a nervous tattoo in my stomach. He really was going to the flat. He slowed at the beautiful gated block of red-brick flats we lived in. I pulled up to the kerb and waited. Maybe I’d just stay here and watch him ring the intercom and beg me for forgiveness, whilst sobbing uncontrollably at what he’d lost. Me. I could film it on my mobile phone and watch it over and over again.
What the…?
He drove straight past.
Where was he going?
There was plenty of parking out front. Could he not see through the tears of guilt and remorse? Had he changed his mind? His car disappeared around the corner before I could fully grasp what was happening.
My foot slammed on the accelerator, laying down rubber as I pulled out after him. Two near misses, a T-junction and a possible speeding ticket later, I caught up with him. It was harder to keep any cars between us, as he moved onto the quieter roads. My mind spun with confusion. Where was he going?
Another sharp right, and—
Oh my God.
I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to figure it out. He was going to Talith’s house.
Tom pulled up to the kerb and leapt out of his car, so desperate to get to Talith that he didn’t even bother to put the convertible’s roof up. He bounded up the stairs, brown paper takeaway bag in one hand, massive bunch of flowers behind his back. He set the takeout bag on the top step and smoothed back his wind-ruffled blond hair, cocking a designer-jean-clad leg, puffing his chest and leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe.
I recognised that pose, that look. It was the one he used when we started going out. When he was trying to charm me and knew he was going to get lucky.
The big black door swung opened before he could knock.
He whipped the flowers from behind his back as Talith appeared, barely dressed in a black silk and lace peignoir, her ash-blond hair falling in artful waves over her shoulders. She took the flowers and leant in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Tom walked into her, backing her into the house, herding her petite form with his big body.
I shivered. I used to love it when he went all macho with me; a little bit dominant—not exactly Fifty Shades of Grey, more Off White, but still… I should have known he was playing away; it had been so long since he’d bothered.
Talith leant out and grabbed the takeaway bag, her peignoir sagging off one shoulder. Tom’s hand slapped down on her backside. Her squeal and giggle floated down the street before she disappeared inside. The door closed.
Black.
Solid.
Final.
With me on the outside.
Alone.
A few minutes later, it started to drizzle, a fine October mist of rain.
Still, I sat in my car, strangely exhausted. My mind and stomach churned. Were they pretend-picnicking on the living room floor like Tom and I used to do? Were they fuelling up on food before getting down and dirty?
Was he feeding Talith little bites from his own plate? Did she have a bottle of icy-cold Pinot sweating on the coffee table ready for them to share, like I always did on takeout night? Was he kissing her between sips from their shared glass?
I sat lost in thought, staring straight ahead, rain blurring the windscreen whilst Jennifer Nettles sang about how boys can be promiscuous and she didn’t want to be that girl, then, without conscious thought, I found my four-inch heels sinking into the tiny patch of muddy lawn outside Talith’s house. Back pressed to the house wall, I peered around the edge of the living room window, like a starving orphan at a bakery display.
A car drove past and slowed. I ignored it. It wasn’t like I was trespassing. I owned the house. At least, I paid the mortgage and owned all of the furniture in it. Which, to my mind, meant the tiny patch of lawn I was currently irrigating with my stiletto heels was mine.
Irrespective of whether my name was on the deed.
I scanned the open-plan living-dining-kitchen. Tom’s shoes were kicked off haphazardly by the door, his leather jacket slung on the stairs. He was sprawled on a plush red sofa cushion. They’d scattered them over the floor, so they could eat picnic style. Talith reclined between his spread legs, leaning against his chest.
Cosy.
Settled.
Intimate.
It was exactly as I’d feared. It was an exact replica of our monthly takeout night. Anger started to boil inside me, flushing my skin. This wasn’t a one-off thing. He’d just slotted Talith—she didn’t deserve to be called a mother—into my place like we were interchangeable.
Tom took a sip of wine, then put the glass to Talith’s full lips, tipping it so she could sip from the same place his lips had touched. She took the glass from his hand, setting it amongst the remains of their dinner. She twisted in his arms, her lush, surgically enhanced body moulding to his. Their mouths melded. Tom arched, twisting to come over her. It was a move I knew well. A quick fondle of her breasts and he’d be gripping her hands above her head, demanding she wrap her legs around his hips and dig her heels in so he could feel the stilettos scoring his flesh.
This wasn’t some mistake.
They weren’t eaten up with guilt over betraying me.
They didn’t care.
Numb, I stumbled away from the window, tripping over the low garden wall and bumping into Tom’s car. My Mulberry handbag fell off my shoulder, spilling its contents on the damp back seat. Without thought, I leant over the side of the car, scooping up my purse, a couple of receipts, a stray tampon in a frayed half-open wrapper and a packet of cress seeds.
Then the packet was open and I was reaching across the back of the car, sprinkling tiny black seeds onto the footwell and along the back seat. Everything was already damp from the drizzle, making for perfect growing conditions, but I snapped the top off a bottle of Evian Facial Spray, liberally spraying everywhere the seeds had landed.
By the time I came back to reality, my heart was pounding and I was halfway home. My survival instinct kicked in and I pulled over at a roadside recycling centre to dispose of the evidence, dropping the empty seed packet and spray bottle into the recycling bins before heading for home.
I felt… I felt good. A smile tilted my lips and amusement tickled my tummy. It was wanton vandalism. I should probably feel guilty, or upset, even angry, but I didn’t.
I felt good. Not quite happy, but good. Amused. Maybe even a little bit proud of myself.
It wasn’t like it was premediated. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Temporary insanity, maybe. Honestly, no one carried cress seeds around in their handbag, just in case they needed to seek vengeance against their philandering boyfriend. I’d bought them for my godson Owain’s nursery project. They were going to make those little egg heads, where you drew a face on the shell, emptied the egg and replaced its filling with damp cotton wool, then sowed cress hair.
Oh my God, wait until I tel
l Jenn!
Jenn didn’t know I’d broken up with Tom yet, about Talith’s role in it or that I’d caught them shagging. Twice. I’d been in a shocked haze. I hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and besides, Jenn and Owain were on holiday, but suddenly I did want to talk about it. At least, I did with Jenn. Jenn would understand the betrayal. We’d been best friends close to fifteen years. Carrie Underwood launched into “Before He Cheats,” and I sang along enthusiastically about smashing up a cheating ex’s car. As I pulled onto Regency Street, the happy feeling began to deflate, depression creeping around the edges.
I wanted to feel good again. I deserved to feel good.
None of this was my fault. I’d never cheated. Not with Tom’s mother, or father, or anyone. I’d been faithful, for years… seven years. It wasn’t like I hadn’t had chances or offers either. I had lots of them. I was popular, the Most Popular, as voted by the great British public. The more successful and famous I’d become, the more offers I’d had from men: rich men, poor men, fat men, thin men, old, young, ugly and hot, and I’d turned them down. All of them.
Because I had a boyfriend: Tom. I’d wasted years of my life, the best years—my screw-around years—on one man, only to find out he was shagging my mother. My head began to pound.
Tom didn’t deserve to be happy.
Talith didn’t deserve to be happy, filling my place in Tom’s life like I’d never existed. If he closed his eyes whilst he was shagging, could he tell the difference? Did he care? Clearly my mother didn’t. Carrie Underwood launched into the final verse of my new anthem. Not that I’d taken a Louisville Slugger to the headlights of Tom’s Audi, the Audi I’d paid for, or carved my name into his seats.
I wasn’t stupid.
That was criminal damage.
Besides, carving my own name wouldn’t exactly be discreet, and, even overworked and underpaid, the police wouldn’t have to work hard to find me if I autographed his car.
But I wasn’t going to let this go, either. I wasn’t going to just disappear like I’d never existed, just move on and pretend nothing had happened. It had happened. They didn’t deserve to get away with it.
Kissing Frogs Page 29